We shun it ere it comes,
We shun it ere it comes,
Afraid of Joy,
Then sue it to delay
And lest it fly,
Beguile it more and more —
May not this be
Old Suitor Heaven,
Like our dismay at thee?
More poems by Emily Dickinson
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Because I could not stop for Death —
Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves— … -
There is a pain — so utter —
There is a pain — so utter —
It swallows substance up —
Then covers the Abyss with Trance — … -
A charm invests a face
A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld.
The lady dare not lift her veil … -
There came a Wind like a Bugle —
There came a Wind like a Bugle —
It quivered through the Grass
And a Green Chill upon the Heat …